


Burdens of Surface Stone

by ClementineStarling



Series: This Path That We Walk Upon [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The recent imprisonment in Thranduil's dungeon has left Thorin irritable and restless, and while his companions ascribe his temper to gold madness it is really the Elvenking he lusts for.</p><p>Follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1175075">Like Gold Out Of Lead</a><br/>Set in Erebor, shortly before the Battle of Five Armies</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burdens of Surface Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, corniness de luxe. Be warned!  
> But it has to finally come out of the drawer because it keeps sucking creative energy. Don't know why. T'is just how it is. 
> 
> So, I’ve tried to find a way to squeeze a follow-up encounter to the one described in [Like Gold Out Of Lead](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1175075) into the few days before the Battle of Five Armies and thereby, somewhat unintentionally, sacrificed logic to canon. Which makes me cringe quite a bit, to be honest. In general I'm not really happy with this fic, but what the heck, this is only supposed to be porn. Period. 
> 
> I changed the perspective and roles/hierarchy, too, so this will be just the other way around (Dom!Thorin and sub?Thranduil), and also - kind of - consensual.  
>  **concerning consent:** When I wrote this, I thought the whole thing is without doubt consensual, because the encounter is based on explicit permissions. But at a second glance, there are so many contradictory moments, that I have to revoke my assessment. It's rather dub-connish in places, so please, if you're uncomfortable with such situations, don't read. // PS | Further elaborations on the question of consent: Now, about half a year after publishing this fic, I finally realised how non-consensual some moments actually are. I can't believe I did not notice that before, because it's really not at all hard to spot. Obviously I was blinded by all the explicit permissions, so I could not see the problematic framework and the dubiousness of the possibility of consent within the situation. I guess it depends a lot on how much you're into fantasies of submission and surrender, if you will regard this as powerplay or non-consensual sex. I'd say its pretty much classical dubcon and hope this provides enough information for you to go further or turn around now.
> 
> I'm not a native speaker, so I'd be really thankful for any pointers towards mistakes (spelling, grammar, expression, etc.)  
> Also I love to chat, so if you feel like it, don't hesitate to leave a comment. (HINT: DO LEAVE A COMMENT!) :)
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics of [North Star, Inverted by Circle Takes The Square](http://ctts.bandcamp.com/track/north-star-inverted%0A):  
> The burdens of surface stone / Scrapes skin from bones

Days like ash, crumbling away under the pitiless wind. Gust after gust, never-tiring, a sharp edge skimming over the camp and stirring the tarpaulins into shivers. Even on the balustrade high above the main gate, where he stands sheltered by stone and rock, the air still stings like a swarm of needles, a telltale of oncoming winter. But there is also something else in the chill, something unsettling, like a wisp of smouldering fire and decay, the memory of a battle field.

 _Azanulbizar_ , the wind croons. _Remember Azanulbizar._

As if Thorin could ever forget, as if these foul days were not etched into his soul like the loss of Erebor itself, the dark hole at the bottom of his heart that no amount of gold could ever fill. He longs for the times when the Mountain was rich with life and joy and the laughter of children, when its treasures were so much more than metal and gems. But of these riches, nothing is left. Where once dwarven culture thrived and prospered, there remains nothing but dust and emptiness; Durin’s Folk is gone, scattered to faraway lands and remote mountains and only ghosts are left to haunt the deserted halls, their mutter a constant reminder in the clatter of coins and in the echo of steps.

It makes Thorin’s heart clench like a fist, an angry, a sad ball of desperate muscle.  
Not for the first time he wishes his brother was here and his sister too, but they lie afar, buried under cold stone, one long dead, the other maddened by grief. And never, not in all his years of exile, has it been clearer that they are gone and never before has he missed Erebor as much as now that finally he has returned.

So it must be his mind playing tricks, he decides. His grief that turns the distant tents into spectres of pallor and doom. The armies of men and elves, they are no goblins or orcs, they won’t attack, he’s certain of it. He has seen it in the faces of their envoys: They’re here to extort what they deem their fair share of the dragon’s hoard. They may lay siege to him, starve his companions, but they won’t charge with bared steel and drawn bow. The humans might, there’s little he does not think them capable of, yet they will follow the lead of the elves who are too cautious to risk their lives for a bit of worldly riches when they know that time alone will grant them their wishes…  
The words of the Elvenking still resound in his head: _I am patient, I can wait._

Thorin grinds his teeth at the all too fresh memory of his stay in Thranduil’s prison, it rekindles an obsession he would rather know snuffed out. Not one night has passed since Mirkwood that he has not woken from dreams of lithe limbs and fair skin and strands of silver between his fingers. These fantasies, they’ve begun to sneak into his days and poison his thoughts like a treacherous sickness, leaving him irritable and restless. 

The others have noticed the signs, ascribing them to gold madness, to his futile search for the Arkenstone - yet as much as it disquiets him that the stone is not to be found, his desire for riches and power is nothing compared to his desire for _him_. And while they recognise the feverish burn in his eyes he cannot, not at any cost, have them know the truth; so their misunderstanding of the nature of his condition might – for the time being – be considered the lesser of two evils and he does naught to discourage it, on the contrary: The search keeps them occupied.

And they are so eager to please, tireless they comb piles of gold and treasures for the stone, they shift debris, they’ve even cleared some of the old royal quarters to the best of their abilities. And every day that passes inside of Erebor the distance grows between them.

Everyday he is less of their leader and more of their king; and where his flares of temper and madness have failed to alienate them, it is his newly-found status that accomplishes the task. He is no longer the first among equals, not only a dwarven prince, he is their liege, King under the Mountain. Soon he is to claim his birth right, soon he is to bear Erebor’s crown and once again Durin’s Folk will flock to their home and pledge alliance to the throne and the LonelyMountain will be restored to its former greatness.

That’s why they have begun to respectfully tiptoe around him, that’s why they leave him alone, here on the balustrade, where now he stands like his own ghost, staring down into an uncertain future.

Ash-grey turns to cinder-black when night falls and there are no stars in the clouded sky, only the camp fires in the valley, erratic like fireflies in the breeze. They are already burning low, when he sees it: Long, sleek hair like a flag in the wind, pale as moonbeams, and Thorin’s stomach lurches. He watches the Elvenking moving through the tents, long strides and light steps, graceful, effortless like the breeze that skims the lands. Around him, the shadows seem to retreat. He shines like a gem in the dark, the most precious thing Thorin has ever laid eyes on, the one thing that makes his heart race and his knees buckle. Breathless he observes Thranduil’s path, and when he sets out to climb up the slope, ascending towards him, hope and disbelief are tangling in his breast.

 

* * *

 

The night is sharp when he steps outside to welcome his guest. Behind him the dwarves guarding the gate remain still, invisible like ghosts, hoods pulled low against the bitter cold. The silence of fealty is absolute.

Thranduil has come without his crown or other insignia of monarchy, just clad in a grey cloak, his hair the only adornment, spun silver catching starlight. „I seek an audience with the King under the Mountain,“ the elf says. It takes no more words, only an exchange of glances, and Thorin leads the way, deep into the mountain, torchlight glittering off gold and gems and smooth rock. 

They do not speak until they reach Thorin’s quarters, where the stone is warm and bright and comfortable as a mother’s womb. For a while, Thorin does not move, he just stands staring at the walls, all too aware of Thranduil behind him, his form like magnetism in the air, pulling, repelling like Thorin’s fists clench and unclench, his insides a wild array of emotions. He wants to punch the elf, hurt him, and he wants to kiss him too, so desperately it aches in his bones.

When finally he turns around, the anger is still gleaming in his eyes.  
„So why have you come?“ he asks „To taunt me again?“ His emotional turmoil leaves a nasty slur in his voice, yet beneath the anger there is hope. Improbable, irrational hope.

Thranduil just looks at him, unblinking, expression unreadable, and Thorin thinks of the lakes that lie beneath the mountains, where the water is ancient and still like glass, for centuries unperturbed even by wind and weather, not a ripple on the surface.

„Why are you here then?“ Thorin spits. „You owe me.“

It is this mention of his debt that finally breaches Thranduil’s impassivity. „I do,“ he says and there is a hint of shame in his nod of acknowledgement. What happened between them was not of a political nature, no matter of state, on the contrary. Nothing could have been more personal than their last encounter and the memory raises a blush onto Thranduil’s face, subdued like the first tinge of dawn on the horizon and barely perceivable on the porcelain teint, but distinct enough for heedful eyes to notice.

Thorin’s mouth is suddenly dry and his skin too tight. „So shall you repay me?“ he asks while Thranduil is drawing closer.

And then, unexpectedly, the Elvenking kneels. A movement that comes as natural to him as any, elegant, graceful, and it makes Thorin’s heart miss a beat to see him like this, head lowered, compliant. He is more gorgeous than ever, the flow of hair accentuating the perfect symmetry of his face, the sternness of his brow. Thorin takes in the dark line of lashes, the luscious curve of the mouth, the edge of the cheekbone, and when he reaches out to touch it, Thranduil leans into his palm like a large cat, eyes closed, completing the surrender.

Thorin runs his thumb over the elf’s lower lip, coarse blacksmith’s hand on delicate skin. He tilts the head upwards, and Thranduil looks at him out of sky blue eyes, his own desire mirrored back at him, lips parting in invitation, and Thorin feels like his soul gets sucked from his body.

Mine, he thinks, finally mine. And then he leans down to kiss him, gently at first, fleeting touch of lips, quick flick of tongue, then deeper, hungrier, drinking Thranduil’s breath, tasting his scent, sunshine and pine trees, licking, biting until the elf’s breathing becomes uneven and ragged. Excitement ripples down his spine, a tingle that coils and twists in the pit of his stomach, and when finally he pulls back, Thranduil is all flushed, lips reddened, eyes glazed, so beautiful in his response, it is breathtaking.

„Stand,“ Thorin says and takes a step backwards.

Without hesitation the elf gets to his feet and patiently waits for the next command.

„Strip,“ Thorin says, leaning back against the sturdy frame of his bed.

Elegant fingers rise to unclasp the fastenings of the cloak, undo the lacings of the tunic. What is unveiled is every bit as perfect as Thorin imagined: a flawless shape, well defined muscle draped over noble bone, skin as pale as marble and as smooth. The only body hair Thorin’s curious gaze finds is an oddly dark patch between Thranduil’s legs, stark contrast to the silvery-white of his tresses and the blossom-pallor of his skin. His eyes stick to the area, to the delicious stir of arousal, the urge to touch nearly overwhelming in his fingers. But he needs to stay in control, however badly he wants to dig his fingernails into skin, mark the elf as his toy and his property. So instead of ravishing his guest he occupies himself with opening his own robes, unlacing his trousers, baring himself to Thranduil’s eager stare.

Metallic bronze, stretching over thick ropes of muscle, broad shoulder, wide chest, hard stomach, the thick, soft trails of hair, cock swollen and keen.

Thorin observes how the elf’s eyes widen at the sight, the nervous gulp, the twitch in his hands, then, when he realised that he’s being watched, how Thranduil lowers his gaze, shame like fever on his cheeks.  
„Look at me,“ Thorin demands, his own hand curling around his cock, stroking himself. A languid, mesmerising motion that deepens Thranduil’s blush. „This is what you came for after all, isn’t it?“

Again this faint almost shy nod that makes Thorin’s blood boil.  
He lowers himself onto the bed, reaching out towards his guest. „Come here,“ he says.

Hair cascades upon his chest, feathery caress on heated skin, as Thranduil crouches over him. Thorin’s hand rises to grasp a handful of that silver and attempts to drag the elf down into another kiss, but Thranduil does not allow it and he frowns at the resistance.  
„Have you changed your mind?“ He cannot help the disappointment to shine through the mockery.

 „You must understand that I am here to settle my debt and that I will reimburse you for everything I’ve taken from you. For this hour I am yours. But you yourself must suffer the same insolence I have endured. This will be but a mirror of what has already happened.“

 Thorin looks blank for a moment before he understands the implications of Thranduil’s words, the declaration of submission, the waiver of control, and he bares his teeth in a wide grin.

„I very much doubt that this will be repetition,“ he says and tightens the grip in Thranduil’s hair until pain sparks in the elf’s eyes. „Unless of course you regard imagination as fact,“ he adds, yanking harder.

This time Thranduil gives in and allows to be pulled down, towards the dwarf’s mouth where the words wait for him, alluring as sweetened wine and harsh like gravel.

„I intend to use you,“ Thorin whispers, „far beyond simple requital. I will taste what _you_ dared not to take and you will gladly accept whatever I choose to do, even more you will beg for my touch.“

His fist is like iron in the silvery hair while his other hand travels the length of Thranduil’s back, tracing the ribs, savouring the shivers of excitement and dread, the heartbeat relentless against the ribs like the wings of a large bird, eager to escape its cage; and he remembers the wretched hour in the Elvenking’s chamber, the way Thranduil held him to his chest, like a pet, curious fingers exploring his strangeness, skilful in their task, until arrogance began melting into desire. Perhaps in a way this will be iteration after all.

Thranduil gasps when the hand reaches deeper, palm cupping the curve of his arse, the sprawling fingers close to velvet skin and tender flesh, a promise of pleasure and also a question asked. „Yes,“ he murmurs, head still buried in Thorin’s shoulder.

The word crawls all over Thorin’s body, spawning tingles of joy, vibrating in his spine and the sharp tug of pleasure, nearly painful, in his loins. He feels the rush of blood that leaves the head empty and the cock impatient and with one swift move, he rolls them both over.

They come to lie skin against skin, pressed up to each other, breathing hard. Thorin’s hand is still tangled in Thranduil’s hair and he holds him in place, when he grinds himself against him, eliciting low moans from half-open lips. Thorin yearns to kiss them, but he cannot break away from the sight, the petal-like flush creeping over the moonstone chest, the brow furrowed in what must be lust and the pupils so wide, they seem to house the night. The strain of muscles, barely forced into submission, betrays his true nature though: regardless their contract, Thranduil is still a king, a warrior, child of the First Age, which makes his surrender all the sweeter.

Thorin loosens his grip. His hand glides over the smooth face, the swanlike neck, wrapping his fingers around it, squeezing, just long enough for the spark of excitement to shine up in Thranduil’s eyes. With a satisfied smile he lets go and runs his fingers over the collarbone and further, rubbing their coarse tips over a nipple, the silent gasp a perfect reward. The tender flesh tightens under his touch and his own body responds with a new wave of heat, circling out from his groin. He flattens his palm, calluses rough against the silken feel of elfish skin as it wanders deeper. Thranduil’s cock is warmer than the rest of him, throbbing with his heartbeat, the same flutter of wings, less powerful here, but no less urgent.

Thorin closes his fingers around the shaft, gently, tentatively; he feels it twitch under the applied pressure, soft and hard at the same time, such a delicate tool for so ancient a creature. He could crush it with ease, finally exact vengeance for the broken truce, punishing the King of the Woodlands for his treachery. Some of this thoughts must have shown on his face, because Thranduil trembles under his hands, eyes wide with fear and arousal, reminding Thorin that no hunger has ever been as poignant as his desire for the elf; not even in those days of exile and starvation has the longing for bread burnt as much as the hatred.

It is the same passion that is still lingers inside him. And it is not.

For one hundred and seventy years he wanted to destroy his enemy, revel in his flesh and tear it apart. He wanted to show him pain and despair and desolation, but now, that the day of reckoning has come, he cannot do it. The wrath has been waning, unnoticed, softening into something else. Now he yearns to keep him, to own him, a prize among his treasures.

His hand has started to move without intention, led by instinct, up and down and up, until the elf squirms and whimpers, fingers clutching at sheets, the beautiful features twisting like Thorin’s insides. Greed uncoils in his stomach, voracity like a dragon’s, pulsing through his body like blood, swelling his cock, glistening from its tip. It is time.

Thorin lets go of Thranduil. He rises to kneel between the pale legs, pushing them apart with his thighs that look so dark and brawny in comparison, the sprawl of fingers possessive on the hipbone that’s straining against the delicate skin.

„So will you fuck me then, Thorin Oakenshield,“ Thranduil breathes, looking up at him from heavy-lidded eyes, a faint sheen of sweat shimmering on his brow. He licks his lips while Thorin is stroking himself, oil already reducing the friction.  
„Do you want me to, Elvenking?“ he asks, as if their terms were not yet conclusive, as if they had not already agreed on what is to come, but he needs to hear it. His slick cockhead nudges against puckered skin and Thranduil’s member jumps in response, but the elf only bites his lip, desperate not to cry out.  
„Say it“, Thorin demands.

 „Yes.“ Only a whisper, only a small, a tiny word, but it is nearly as delightful as the body that yields to the penetration so much more willingly that he has anticipated. For once his groan matches Thranduil’s, the stretch of flesh around him overwhelming, the pleasure like a thrum in his head. He pushes deeper and Thranduil writhes underneath him, as if trying to escape the intrusion, eyes squeezed shut, features contorted into a grimace he cannot quite read.

 „Shhhh,“ Thorin says and wills his body to stop, pause for a moment, even though every fibre of his being screams in outrage at the delay. His hands rub over shaking thighs in reassurance, much like soothing a horse. It’s been a while that he himself has been taken like this, but he remembers the sensation, the pressure and discomfort that will eventually dissolve into pure bliss. He shifts a little so he can drag Thranduil closer with a swift, effortless move, like a puppet to be split open by his cock.

The elf gasps and jerks at the further invasion but then, accidentally, the blunt dwarven tool brushes the hidden spot, the place that sparks stars of pleasure, and a low moan wrenches itself from his throat, like no sound Thorin has ever heard, choked, surprised, tortured, and he wonders which of the rumours about elfish desire are true, if maybe he is about to rip Thranduil’s soul apart with every thrust. Yet he could not care less, on the contrary, he longs to see his ruin. If any of his former desires remains, then this: to have the proud ruler of the Woodland Realm to come undone under his touch and to spill his seed into his wanton body. His hand reaches for Thranduil’s cock again, enclosing the softening length with determination. This time it is a curse that falls from Thranduil’s holy lips and Thorin feels the giddiness of laughter bubbling up from his belly. Victory lies within grasp.

The sudden snap of his hips, a deep, violent thrust, earns him another one of those impossible sounds, but he also sees how Thranduil is slipping away, retreating to somewhere else, somewhere safe, while he is making use of his treacherous body, and he cannot allow that.

„Stay with me“, Thorin says, the command like the sizzle of acid in his voice. He lets go of Thranduil’s cock when he leans forward and catches his jaw instead, forcing the elf to face him. „Look at me while I fuck you,“ he growls. Thranduil complies, staring at him from night-dark eyes and Thorin notices the same flash of excitement as before, when he put his fingers around his neck, squeezing. So he keeps the hand where it is while he sets a slow, punishing pace, never failing to grind his stomach against Thranduil’s trapped cock, the friction nearly too much to bear.

„Do not deceive yourself, son of Oropher, this is what you wanted from me all along. Be held down and defiled.“ His thumb grazes Thranduil’s bottom lip like it has done before, but this time it presses deeper, forcing its way towards wetness. Not quite unexpectedly the elf welcomes the finger into his mouth, and at last understanding begins to dawn in Thorin’s lust-muddled mind: Thranduil needs to be owned as much as he needs to own him.

Perhaps their first encounter was nothing but a set-up for this, he wonders, a prelude orchestrated to make him play a part. But does it matter? If he were to die on the morrow, he would have at least this hour of bliss to guard his heart against oncoming blackness. There would be only one regret, he realises, because there is still one thing that he longs for, one thing he cannot simply take like the rest: the feel of Thranduil’s hands on his body.

„Touch me,“ he whispers, and for the first time it is a request. He braces himself for the coolness of compliance, the distant slide of stony, impassive fingers, but the hands that rise to his back are like claws, like spurs, vindictive, elating, passionate. Sharp nails drawing blood, a pain that runs straight to his cock and makes his hips buck and stutter.

Thorin looks down at the elf pinned beneath his weight, grace reduced to quivers of the flesh, vulnerable like all creatures who are only mortal in the end, and the urge to kiss him becomes irresistible. He lowers his head, mouths nearly brushing, sharing a breath of air, before they meet and his tongue glides along his own thumb, over soft rim of lips and ridges of teeth, deeper, to where the moans rise, and then Thranduil kisses him back, as much as the grip of Thorin’s hand around his jaw allows, his fingers digging into his buttocks, pressing him closer into heat and tightness, as if he could make their souls touch, somewhere inside.

They rock into each other, tangle of limbs and essence, senses running raw, chafing, like exposed nerves, the friction almost unbearable, the slap of flesh upon flesh obscene, silly, blurring in the distance. Hatred, love, wrath, all is left behind, as they move together, one being of too much hurt and too many years, ascending towards rapture.

Words come bubbling up from Thranduil’s mouth which Thorin suspects to be mainly nonsensical, but he still swallows them with relish, a small treasure each, reward for every tireless grind of his loins and push of his cock and the struggle against his own weakness. But he cannot spend himself without taking the elf with him over the edge, into the free fall of orgasmic bliss.

Thranduil’s thighs shake against his, small tremors, it cannot be long now, he decides when at last he recognises a word in the incoherent babble, _tolo_ , Thranduil pleads, _come_.

Sensations congeal. Control is slipping. His body grows tense, frozen in time, hovering at the very brink of existence where death meets dream meets desire. _Come_ , Thranduil breathes, and together they tumble. Pleasure fells through flesh like an axe, severing mind and body, tearing them out of their carnal vessels, their seed spurting like blood from open wounds, agony and rapture, last jolts of nerves, then nothing. They are lost in the haze, touch fond as forest rain.

* * *

Thorin wakes to the light of another ashen day, sneaking in through one of the elaborate air shafts above his chambers. The bedding is sticky and damp against his naked skin, but there is no one else, no matter how desperate the hands that grope for a trace of warmth between the linens.

Thorin sits up, cold dread in his throat. It can’t have been only a dream, not this time.  
He throws back the blankets – only to realise his body bears no mark of passion, not a hint of ardent lips or bruising fingers. All he can find are the dried, flaking trails of seed on his belly, that could well be his own spend, coaxed from him by the most vivid delusion, not an attest of Thranduil’s defeat, no proof for last night’s events.

Perhaps it’s a fit of madness, but his head feels suddenly light and the room seems to tremble when he raises his fingers to his nose, sniffing, failing to detect even a wisp of the elf’s scent. There is none on the pillows either.

The surge of anger is so familiar that he does not even bother to break something. He just sits on the edge of his bed, riding it out, red-hot and seething at first, then cooling into something darker, more twisted, a dull pain in his guts.

Later, when he will stand high above the valley and see the tents shiver to his feet and smell the stench of danger in the air, the greyish bleakness of the day will have washed away the foolish hope and purged all illusions from his heart, leaving only a hollow weariness, a feeling like stone that’s grown brittle under the constant assailment of water.

**Author's Note:**

> [this path that we walk upon is the collection of points that the rain has drawn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtmQKOOZnlM&feature=kp)


End file.
